


Samson

by tsv



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Fluff, Haircuts, M/M, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 17:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11109339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsv/pseuds/tsv
Summary: "I thought you always cut your own hair, big man," he quips with faux ignorance, preserves the air of almost-irritation at being asked for a favor while simultaneously moving to grab the scissors. "And now you wantmeto do it?""I know it's probably been a while since you cut hair, Doc," Brock retorts lazily, leaving Rusty bristling. Admittedly, he set himself up for that one. "but it's easier when someone else does it. Someone who can actually see the back of your head."He studies the bodyguard's face in the mirror, beset by the cool steely tones of their bathroom. The blues bring out his eyes.They're both more than aware that Brock has cut his own hair with ease a million times over, with far cruder implements than a neat pair of scissors, in far less favorable situations than an air-conditioned bathroom in a penthouse suite."I have abeard, you know," he mumbles frostily, combing his fingers through still-damp blond hair, feeling an inevitable pang of jealousy at how thick it is. He swears Brock's hairline hasn't receded a tenth of an inch since they met.—Rusty cuts Brock's hair for the first time.





	Samson

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this may be slightly inspired by [that song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=veygrHHzahg)

It can be hard to feel like they're dating sometimes, even if it's been seven months. Brock is a deeply private man by nature — the cat's been out of the bag for a while about their relationship, yet he's still not prone to being particularly touchy-feely outside of the bedroom. Their frequent lunches and outings don't take on a particular significance, aren't dissimilar from the numerous ones they had _before_ , though dinner dates tend to acquire a more romantic tone, rare as they are.

Nevertheless, Brock makes it obvious in his own way that he is cared for. And yet, there is a certain distance he holds between them, something that Rusty yearns to bridge. But he is no stranger to having to build up trust, to difficulty letting your walls down.

Which is why the request catches him so off guard one day, both unbelievably simple and yet, at the same time, so intimate.

"Cut my hair, Doc."

They're both fresh from the shower clad in nothing but towels, Brock straddling a thin-backed chair with a soft cushion in front of the bathroom mirror, Rusty a few feet behind him staring at his reflection like he's grown a second head. Certainly, Brock's mullet has grown a couple inches past its preferred length, starting to look more unruly than usual — but he has never known the man to be anything but _violent_ when it comes to anyone else touching his hair.

Come to think of it, in the nearly twenty years they've been friends, Rusty has never seen him go to a barber, not even once. _Doesn't trust another man with a blade near his neck._

Which means that this is an implicit act of trust. A privilege.

"I thought you always cut your own hair, big man," he quips with faux ignorance, preserves the air of almost-irritation at being asked for a favor while simultaneously moving to grab the scissors. "And now you want _me_ to do it?"

"I know it's probably been a while since you cut hair, Doc," Brock retorts lazily, leaving Rusty bristling. Admittedly, he set himself up for that one. "but it's easier when someone else does it. Someone who can actually see the back of your head."

He studies the bodyguard's face in the mirror, beset by the cool steely tones of their bathroom. The blues bring out his eyes.

They're both more than aware that Brock has cut his own hair with ease a million times over, with far cruder implements than a neat pair of scissors, in far less favorable situations than an air-conditioned bathroom in a penthouse suite.

"I have a _beard_ , you know," he mumbles frostily, combing his fingers through still-damp blond hair, feeling an inevitable pang of jealousy at how thick it is. He swears Brock's hairline hasn't receded a tenth of an inch since they met. "But if you really want me to, fine."

His words lack the edge they deserve, plucked of animosity by the curve of a smile threatening its way onto his lips. There is something very exciting about this small intimacy.

But the head of golden hair before him is disarming, tresses gleaming in the yellow light, a perfect block of marble waiting for direction — with him, the amateur sculptor, daftly wielding little other than a chisel and ambition. He hesitates, scissors cool against his fingers. Brock's languid reflection observes him in the half-fogged mirror panels, patient.

"How short do you want it?" Rusty asks, knowing the answer. He's stalling.

"Just take an inch or two off the bottom."

So he starts to trim, the thin blade of the shears taking off safe cuts at the end, angling this way and that. It's not so hard, past the anxiety of beginning. Were it anyone else, it'd even be easy to get careless, to half-ass it like any other job he's been handed in the past.

But Rusty knows Brock enough to be afraid of him — knows well enough that Brock, more than anyone else who's stuck around in his life, holds him responsible for his failures, and is willing to punish him for them. If he didn't, this relationship wouldn't have worked out in the first place.

And Brock waits calmly, patiently. Once again, he is gratified by his trust. (As always, when someone puts their trust in him, he can't help the feeling that it is tragically misplaced.)

"We could hire a barber, you know," he reminds him, trying once more to sound irritated, but his voice comes out far softer than intended. As if pointing out that Brock doesn't have to settle for his clumsiness, for _him_. "With money like we've got, we could hire a thousand barbers. Finest barbers money can buy."

"I don't want a barber," Brock replies frankly, yet there's no edge to his voice, either. Were it anyone else, Rusty might have almost considered it gentle — "I want you."

Rusty's heart skips a beat. His hand slips, almost cutting a huge chunk of hair out _and_ almost stabbing him in the back of the neck, all in one motion.

Thankfully, he gets a hold of himself, and neither of those things occur. He tries to play it cool, but the smirk reflected back at him in the mirror tells him it didn't escape Brock's notice.

His own scowl mirrors back through the glass.

Soon enough after that, he's finished. And for once, genuine effort pays off — it looks nice. At least, he thinks so. The bottom of his blond locks cut a neat, straight line.

Brock gets up from the chair. For a moment, he is caught breathless by the sight of rippling back muscle, takes in for the thousandth time just how inhumanly strong and _big_ his bodygua— _boyfriend_ is. And when Brock combs a few thick fingers through his newly-trimmed mane, examining himself in the mirror, Rusty is gripped with a cold prickling of uncertainty over his handiwork.

Brock bends over, cupping Rusty's cheek in his broad palm. It doesn't do much to soothe his nerves ( _because he has seen this hand snap too many necks and tear out too many hearts to count_ ), not until he bridges the distance between them with an earnest, yet fleeting kiss.

"You did a good job, Doc," he rumbles in a voice still rough from sleep, offering a rare, genuine smile before turning to walk out of the bathroom. "Did alright."

Rusty remains breathless, staring after him in a daze. It's been seven months, and he is _absolutely_ too old for this, but he can't seem to stop acting like they've just had their first kiss.


End file.
